


Kink Meme Fills

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst, Animals, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cooking, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Consent, F/M, Food, Friendship, Gardening, Gen, Gloves, House Hunting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Insomnia, Kink Meme, Kneeling, Living Together, M/M, Masochism, Miscarriage, Multi, Nightmares, OT3, OT4 (friendship), Poetry, Protectiveness, Puppy!d'Artagnan, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stand-alone kink meme fills; Aramis as a Disney princess, Porthos as the world's only consulting detective, Athos refusing to be a pimp, d'Artagnan gardening, Treville having sex in his office and much more. Summaries, warnings and info to be found in each chapter.</p><p>Fill:<br/>#11 "In which the boys go house-hunting together." (gen, OT4 friendship)<br/>#12 "In which their house-sharing adventure continues." (gen, OT4 friendship)<br/>#13 "In which Aramis suffers from insomnia." (dark-ish)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of short fills for the kink meme. Thanks for all the kind comments!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: "Some kind of fall out from Aramis throwing himself on that bomb in the street. I'm still trying to decide who it was shouting "Aramis noooo!" (It actually sounded a bit like Treville, but I could be wrong.) I know they're soldiers and they take risks all the time, but to throw yourself on a bomb like that knowing exactly what it could do *shudders* I really want the reactions of the others."

He slams into the wall, the back of his head hitting the rich wooden panelling with such force that he sees stars. The gloved hands wrapped around his arms will leave bruises, but as his entire body has already been left sore and aching from the past few days he figures a few more will hardly make much of a difference.

A knee forces its way between his thighs and he spreads his legs to accommodate it, spreads them wider than strictly necessary in the hopes that perhaps his willingness -- his eagerness, really -- to submit to his lover's authority will postpone any further lecturing. He's already heard it all from Athos and Porthos; the first somehow managing to convey more in a few brusque words that the latter had in half an hour of haranguing. Even that new pup, d'Artagnan, had dared send some disapproving looks in his direction.

But this lecture he'd been dreading more than the others. The scent of soap fills his nose as he leans forward to mouth his lover's neck, licking and biting while taking care not to leave any marks behind on the pristine skin. The captain of the musketeers can ill afford to leave a disciplinary meeting looking like he's been mauled by a whore.

"No," growls Treville, pushing him back against the wall. "That's not going to happen. This is me talking while you listen like a good soldier."

Aramis sighs, but obeys. Straightening up until he's standing at attention, he listens while Captain Treville manages to be as unrelenting as Porthos while still matching Athos in his ability to imbue each word with meaning. Only years spent on parade duty, squirming in the hot sun or getting drenched in the rain, keeps Aramis from fidgeting like a school boy berated by his teacher.

"Permission to speak, sir?" he finally asks, relieved when his captain nods in assent.

"I did what had to be done. I'm not going to apologize. I'm not going to promise never to do it again." Noticing how Treville's face darkens in fury, Aramis hurries on; "I do understand that you're angry with me though and I'll accept any punishment you see fit."

"How gracious of you."

There's a dangerous note in Treville's voice, but if Aramis had been the kind of man who stepped away from danger he would never have become a musketeer in the first place.

"If you want to thrash me," he continues stubbornly, "just give me the word and I'll bring you a suitable stick myself."

Treville snorts at that, but his shoulders sink an inch or two as some of the tension bleeds out of his body.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you," he says, sounding at once more like Treville the lover than Treville the captain. "I think perhaps you're confusing punishment with pleasure. Though don't think for a moment that I'm not tempted. Or that I wouldn't beat you black and blue myself if I thought it would make any difference."

Aramis does squirm then, hoping Treville will blame it on trepidation.

"With respect, sir," he murmurs. "You look tired. Perhaps, if you allow, I could..."

He takes a few steps forward, close enough to place a hand on Treville's chest and run it down towards the front of his breeches. Treville's not an man to be seduced against his will, but Aramis has found him open to suggestions in the past... especially at the end of a long day.

The heavy hand, gripping and pressing down on his shoulder until he's kneeling on the floor, has to count as a win he decides. He opens his mouth as gloved fingers probe at his lips and he moans helplessly as he's filled to the point of gagging. Treville's hands grip his hair, holding him firmly in place as he begins to thrust. It would be perfect, only...

"Now that I have your undivided attention," Treville begins, his voice strained but clear, "I'd like to continue discussing the matter of self-preservation..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "In the book, Aramis occasionally earns extra money (and presumably impresses the ladies) by writing poetry. What if the others find it? And it's really awful? I'd like to see a bit of good-natured teasing and banter about it. Alternatively, maybe Aramis writes very good poetry, and everyone is rather surprised. Bonus points if the poems are about one of the other three. Extra bonus points if he's done a Shakespeare and written about two or even all three of them."

"Did you write this?"  
  
Aramis glances down at the small scrap of paper, reading the cursive writing with the kind of speed and ease that leaves the pettiest part of Porthos reeling with jealousy.  
  
"No," comes the quick answer. Aramis turns his back to them without another word, seemingly intent on staring out through the window. Within a few heart beats the hat comes off and one of his hands finds its way to his hair, tugging at the dark curls.  
  
Athos meets Porthos' eyes, raising an elegant eyebrow. Porthos snorts in agreement. Aramis has always made for a poor liar.  
  
"The descriptions of us are quite flattering," Porthos continues, acting as if he hasn't heard the denial. "I knew you were a romantic, but I had no idea you were a poet too."  
  
Aramis twists to face them, face pale except for a red stain on each cheek.  
  
"Somewhat too coarse perhaps for my taste," Athos murmurs, closing the distance between them to wrap his hand around Aramis' arm. Ignoring the way Aramis jerks, he adds; "I've always been more for the classics. And I'm not sure brass was quite the best rhyme for ass. Though I myself have frequently made the same observation about Porthos'-"  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about."  
  
There's a wild kind of fear in Aramis' eyes and Porthos, suddenly concerned that the joke has gone too far, finds himself stepping closer. He holds out his hand, intending to press his friend's shoulder and assure him that all is well. That no offense has been taken, that they're not here to berate him but rather to set everything right.  
  
Instead, he ends up with his arms full of sharp knees and jabbing elbows as Aramis makes an attempt for the door. Porthos can only think of two ways to end the struggle and either choice has the potential of ending their acquaintance. Gathering his courage, he pushes Aramis up against the wall and covers his best friend's mouth with his own.  
  
When he breaks away for air, it's to the sight of Aramis staring at him like a starved man just being handed the key to the king's cupboards.

Next to them, Athos chuckles.  
  
"As I was saying," he repeats, "I like the classics."  
  
xxx  
  
Much later that night he proves it, reciting poems in Latin from heart. Aramis, warm and pliant, translates the words to French. Porthos, raised amongst thieves, beggars and whores, finds himself blushing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Part of the reason Aramis is so irresistible to seemingly everyone is that he's very good at working out what people want //...//. Sometimes it's not really what turns him on, but that's ok, he puts a higher value giving his partner pleasure. Except one time, he ends up doing something he is very much not okay with //...// and he doesn't really know how to say no so he just... endures it. //...// Cue MUCH DRAMA when the person he had sex with (or one of the musketeer bros who he isn't having sex with but is just really observant) realises what's going on."
> 
> It's not at all a perfect fit to the prompt, I'm afraid. The story just took on a life of it's own. Hopefully OP will enjoy it anyway.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: Dub-con**

"So?"  
  
Instead of answering, Aramis reaches out to tug the half-full bottle out of Athos' slack grip. He looks weary rather than sated which by itself, even without his sudden arrival at the tavern, would have been enough to wake Porthos' curiosity. For weeks Aramis had been courting a young lady -- married but supposedly terribly bored with her fat and absent husband -- and few were the evenings where he'd been found drinking with the rest of them.  
  
"So, what?" Aramis finally responds, stretching out his legs towards the fire. He moves gingerly, the skin around his eyes tightening as if in pain. The love bites on his neck and the scratches, easily spotted under the poorly done-up shirt, were nothing new. When it came to love, Porthos knew, Aramis held the belief that pain just added to the pleasure. Or, as he'd put it himself once when too deep into his cups, a rose would be no rose if it didn't have thorns.  
  
"So, what happened?" Porthos demands again, curiosity growing as Aramis takes a long drink before answering.  
  
 "As you well know, my friend, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."  
  
"Good thing then that the only gentleman in the room has already drunk himself into a stupor."  
  
Aramis grins at that, reaching out to ruffle Athos' hair with fondness. As he does, his wrist sticks out of the sleeve exposing patches of darkening skin. Aramis doesn't struggle as Porthos grabs his arm to inspect the damage. Finger-marks, he eventually decides. Much too big to belong to a lady.  
  
"What happened?" he repeats, keeping hold of his friend's hand.  
  
"Her husband came home early."  
  
It's not an altogether unexpected answer. Nor would it be the first, or last, time a betrayed husband had seen fit to take out his anger on Aramis' pretty skin. Porthos lets go of the hand, surprised when Aramis doesn't immediately pull away.  
  
"There was a fight then?"  
  
"Not as such, no."  
  
He can't help but raise an eyebrow at that.  
  
"He didn't try to beat the living daylights out of you?"  
  
Aramis shakes his head, then lifts a hand to tug at his hair.  
  
"What about the bruises then?"  
  
"Oh, well." Aramis hesitates for a long time before continuing. "In a most surprising turn of events, it turned out he didn't want me to leave."  
  
"He didn't want to beat you," Porthos summarizes. "And he didn't want you to leave. So, what did he want?"  
  
Aramis shifts in his seat but doesn't answer. As understanding begins to dawn, Porthos finds himself staring in disbelief at his friend.  
  
"And did you let him?" he finally manages, the words coming out in a harsh whisper. Just as well, perhaps. It wouldn't do for anyone to overhear their discussion. Talk of men bedding other men, through not unheard of, was as likely as not to get someone killed.  
  
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. A simple way to avoid any... unpleasantness. A solution to keep all involved parties happy."  
  
Aramis' voice is thin, his eyes focused on where his free hand picks at a loose thread in his shirt. An invisible band squeezes Porthos' chest, forcing his heart to skip a few beats as he takes a deep breath. Dozens of questions spring to life only to die on his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of ashes.  
  
"The bruises suggest you tried to leave," he finally hears himself say, relieved when Aramis shakes his head.  
  
"If I had wanted to leave, I would have."  
  
Whether that's the truth or just the truth as Aramis needs it to be, Porthos can't tell.  
  
"I didn't say no," Aramis adds, his voice certain now.  
  
"Maybe you should have."  
  
The words slip out before he has a chance to think them through, but luckily Aramis doesn't take offense.  
  
"It's not something I do," he says, much later when they're pouring a boneless Athos into his bed. The dawn chorus serenades them from the window and the morning sun has set the sky on fire in the horizon.  
  
"What?" asks Porthos, before his brain catches up with his mouth. "Say no, you mean?"  
  
"Not to sex, no."  
  
xxx  
  
The only way Porthos knows to respond to that is by asking, repeatedly, throughout the weeks and months that follow;  
  
"What about her? What about him? Or them? Would you let them do this or that? Would you want them to? When would you say no? How?"  
  
It's ridiculous and awkward, but worth every moment as Aramis' responses evetually remain confident even when the answer's no.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "d'Artagnan is broke and doesn't eat as much as he should. The others find out and keep pressing food on him in their trying-to-be-subtle-but-failing-miserably way because he won't accept charity and is embarrassed by his lack of funds."

"Here."

In between one heart beat and the next d'Artagnan finds himself with a brioche in his hand, so warm and soft it might have been taken straight from the oven. The divine smell has his stomach growling so loudly that Aramis and Porthos, though already several steps ahead of him, are bound to have overheard. 

Feeling his ears heat up with shame, d'Artagnan nonetheless lengthens his steps until he's walking side by side with his friends. 

"What's this?" he demands, holding up the sweet bread. The crust looks almost golden in the early morning sun and he has to swallow down the saliva that fills his mouth. The last time he'd been this ravenous he'd been in the middle of growing several inches. For months it had seemed that no matter how much food his mother put on his plate, his belly never got full. 

The memory makes his insides clench with home-sickness in addition to the hunger. 

"A brioche?" Aramis answers, the tone of his voice making clear what he thinks of the question. 

"The baker's wife has taken a fancy to him," Porthos adds, grinning lazily as he bumps his fist against d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Our poor brother finds himself drowning in baked goods and it's our duty, as his best friends, to help him out." 

Here he stops to burp loudly, begging their excuse before stuffing a raisin-studded roll into his mouth. 

"Seriously?" d'Artagnan asks, finally giving himself permission to sink his teeth into the brioche. Despite his best intentions, it's gone in a few bites and he's left, if anything, even hungrier. "She's giving you free food?" 

"I wouldn't call it free," Aramis answers, handing him yet another brioche. "The way she undresses me with her eyes, I ought to be paid in more than flour and sugar." 

"She's no spring chicken," Porthos confides in a mock whisper. Tugging at his moustache he makes a show of searching for the right words before continuing; "Truly, she's more of an... old hen. The kind who's too tough even for the stewing pot." 

"Old is the word," Aramis agrees. "And now I have more bread and cakes than any one man, even one blessed with such a good friend as Porthos here, could ever hope to consume." 

d'Artagnan bites down hard on his lip, too proud to beg. 

"So we asked ourselves," Porthos says, wrapping a giant arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder as he steers him around the corner towards Aramis' place. "Who do we know who's young enough to stuff himself without succumbing to bloating or worse at the end of it?" 

Hope does strange things to d'Artagnan and he almost trips on his feet in his attempt to peer up at his friends. It's too much of a coincidence, surely, this sudden abundance of food at a time when d'Artagnan's purse is empty and his cupboards bare. But they look so casual, so carefree and normal. His father had once told him never to look a gift horse in the mouth though, so he pushes down on his doubt. 

"Me?" he suggests, a grin tugging at his lips as they nod. 

Later, he leaves Aramis' place with his belly filled with cake and his heart swelling with fondness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I want a story (gen or not, as you want) where Porthos and/or Athos find out that Aramis was molested for years when younger. (Maybe by the village priest?) Aramis downplays it and doesn't see any connection between it and his relationship problems. Perhaps he even finds it amusing. Porthos and/or Athos don't find it amusing though. Bonus points for the question "Is he (molestor) still alive?""
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: discussion of sexual abuse of minor**

"Is he still alive?"  
  
The question comes out as a growl, Porthos' eyes as dark as coal. It takes Aramis a few moments too long to realize that his friend sits vibrating with emotion; hands drawn into fists and body tense as if prepared to spring into action. Twisting in his seat he turns to Athos, expecting to see his disbelief mirrored in the older man's face. Instead he finds his friend wearing the blank mask which usually meant that chaos and destruction waited for them just around the corner.  
  
His treacherous mind flashes to an image of the two of them riding into his home village, ripping the poor old town priest out of his comfortable bed and no doubt terrifying him to the point where his heart gave out in fright. And in penance for what? A few stolen touches, mostly forgotten.  
  
"No," he lies. "I'm afraid he passed away some years ago. May God have mercy-"  
  
"May He not," Porthos interrupts, his fist slamming against the table so hard that their plates jump into the air. "I'm sure there must be a special hell reserved for lecherous old men who prey on children. Let him spend eternity there."  
  
"Amen," adds Athos, emptying his cup.  
  
Aramis stares from one to the other, for once at a total loss as to what to do or say. Athos, eyes sharp despite the collection of empty bottles by his feet, seems to catch his confusion. Putting his cup down and straightening up from his slouch, he sighs.  
  
"Imagine," he says, "if you were to find out that someone had spent years harassing young d'Artagnan. Undressing him with his eyes, cornering him whenever given the chance, touching him even though he squirmed to get away."  
  
Suddenly nauseous, Aramis looks away. It hadn't been like that, he tells himself. Of course, he can't be sure. It had all happened all a long time ago and he's done his best to forget. After all, nothing could be gained by dwelling on the past. And besides, he'd proven himself to be a man, hadn't he? There were plenty of ladies in Paris who, would only decency allow it, could vouch for him on that subject.  
  
"That's ridiculous," he mutters, wanting to say more but finding his throat too tight for speaking.  
  
Porthos kicks at the table leg, but doesn't answer. Athos takes another drink.  
  
Far away, a fat old man sleeps peacefully through the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'd like it if he's not attracted to the person in question, but he doesn't see a problem in selling himself to assist his friends. Maybe they've been captured and one of the others is hurt, and he notices one of the guards looking at him, so he supplies them with sexual favours in return for medical supplies. Or perhaps they need info. and he uses someone's interest in him to secure what they need. I just want Aramis whoring himself out for the good of the cause and his friends' reactions to it."
> 
> **Warning for discussion of dub-con**

"We're not having this discussion _again_."  
  
"If you're referring to the discussion where you try to tell me who I can or cannot sleep with, then we're in agreement. In fact, let's never have that discussion again."  
  
The words were delivered lightly and accompanied by a smile, but Athos knew better. The cool look in Aramis' eyes offered far better insight into his friend's mind. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Athos wished for the umpteenth time for Porthos immediate return from Treville's errand. The giant was far better equipped to handle Aramis when the latter was in this kind of mood... if for no other reason that, if reasoning failed to yield the desired result, he'd just sit on their friend until the moment had passed.  
  
Next to them, d'Artagnan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Athos aimed a hard look in his direction, but rather than take the hint the young man gave in to his curious nature.  
  
"I have a feeling I'll regret asking but what exactly are we talking about here...?"  
  
"Athos' control issues," Aramis answered, his smile showing more teeth than strictly necessary. "Having no love life of his own, he means to meddle in mine."  
  
The words stung, just like they were meant to do. Aramis was cruel when cornered.  
  
"I 'meddle' because what you intend to do has nothing to do with love, or even lust. What you've proposed is a business transaction and I, for one, don't consider the goods to warrant the price. We can get the information some other way. We can _always_ get what we need some other way."  
  
Maybe it was an illusion, but Aramis' eyes seemed to thaw after Athos' impromptu speech.  
  
"Why," he quipped, "I didn't know you considered me a prize, Athos."  
  
d'Artagnan's eyes flickered from face to face as understanding dawned on him. He looked shocked, but not disgusted; something which made the shriveled parts inside Athos' chest swell with pride. It hadn't been that long ago that the boy's observant ways had necessitated Athos taking him aside to explain that while the church might condemn men bedding other men, Aramis was their friend. Whether he seduced the butcher's daughter or his son held no importance to his brothers.  
  
"You meant to-" the boy began.  
  
"Mean to," interrupted Aramis.  
  
"How do you even know that-"  
  
"Oh, believe me, I know."  
  
"But, he's old! And smells funny! Besides, he hates us."  
  
"The line between hate and lust is much finer than you'd think."

Athos had had enough.  
  
"No one," he growled, reaching deep inside for his most commanding voice, "will sleep with anyone for information while I'm in charge. Aramis, you're a soldier, not a whore. If that isn't enough to convince you, then please respect the fact that I'm your leader and not your pimp."  
  
Aramis flinched, then bowed in a gesture Athos prayed conveyed acceptance.  
  
"Now, back to the matter at hand...".


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "After a hard day trying to keep control of his musketeers, predict what mood his King is in that day and avoid the machinations of the cardinal, there is nothing Treville likes better than to relinquish control. I'm happy with any pairing, although I can see this working well with Athos. Always on the look out for Richelieu/Treville as well. But seriously, give me sub Treville and I'm happy."

"Down."  
  
It's an order he's only too happy to obey. The floor might be cold and hard, but after a long day on his feet -- half of it spent chasing after his musketeers like a mother hen after her chicks, while the other half had been wasted politely volleying insults with Richelieu over the King's head -- kneeling down makes for a welcome change.  
  
Fingers ghost over his hair before squeezing down on his neck, tilting his head forward. Other than that, his lover ignores him. It's for the best on days like these. It always takes a while for Treville to remember that, in this room with this man, he's not the captain. He's not in charge.  
  
Watching the shadows creep over the floor, he loses track of time. Athos, splayed out in Treville's own chair with a cup held loosely in his hand, seems happy to just gaze into the fire but, his head finally in a place where he's ready to listen, Treville eventually shifts his weight from one sore knee to the other. He winces, wondering if perhaps he's getting too old for kneeling on wooden floors.  
  
"Impatient, aren't we?" Athos says, breaking the silence as he turns his head to glance down at Treville. "And here I thought I was in charge of when... or rather if we begin to play."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
The word fits poorly in his mouth. It always has. Athos lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.  
  
"Refill my cup," he orders instead. "Then you may undress."  
  
Ever the soldier, he carries out both orders with brisk efficiency. He takes care with his clothes and weapons though, refusing to hurry even though he's fully aware of Athos' eyes following his every move. He'd blush, but he's spent a lifetime working with soldiers and he's fairly certain he lost any sense of propriety some twenty years ago.  
  
"Come here."  
  
He closes the distance between them, belly tightening in anticipation as Athos pats his knee in a clear invitation. The sensation of leather against his bare skin sends shivers up his spine and he jerks in surprise when a gloved hand reaches down to grip his thigh.  
  
"Impatient," Athos says again, though with amusement this time. "And what do you want to do?"  
  
"Whatever you tell me to," Treville answers, more truth in the words than he considers appropriate.  
  
In response Athos' fingers dig into his flesh hard enough to bruise. Treville, finally letting the last of the tension bleed out from his shoulders, allows himself to groan and arch into the touch.  
  
"That's what I was hoping to hear," Athos murmurs in his ear. "And now, _now_ we're ready to begin."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Aramis as a Disney princess. We all know that Aramis is the charmer of the group. Can we take this further please? He can charm and calm any animal they come across and animals constantly seek him out. Please feel free to make this as cracky as possible."

They had been followed ever since they entered the forest.  
  
Twigs snapped, branches cracked, leaves rustled. With the exception of Aramis' unflappable mare, the horses all seemed spooked. d'Artagnan kept sneaking looks at his friends, confident that they would have realized that they were being pursued and waiting for them to clue him into the plan.  
  
He could see Porthos grinding his teeth and Athos had reached into his saddle-bags for the bottle he always kept there for emergencies. Usually it only came out when someone had been wounded, or just before they headed into battle with all the odds against them. That's to say, it saw the light of day fairly often.  
  
Even so, the sight of it set d'Artagnan even more on edge than the strange noises coming from their stalkers. He would have expected the sound of horses or men, but what little he could pick up over the unusually shrill bird song, sounded more like an odd kind of grunting or snorting. He had just opened his mouth to bring the strangeness of the situation to the attention of his three friends, when Porthos broke the silence.  
  
"For the love of all that's holy, wont you please send them away?"  
  
The bizarre request appeared to be directed at Aramis.  
  
"You know it doesn't work that way," the man responded, sounding wounded. "Besides, the poor things can't help it. I haven't been to this part of the woods in years. No doubt they've missed me."  
  
Feeling his eyebrows shoot up so high that it hurt, d'Artagnan turned to Athos in the hope of an explanation. Instead he found the other man with his lips wrapped obscenely around the mouth of the emergency bottle, head tilted backwards and throat working furiously as he downed its contents.  
  
Flushing for reasons he didn't want to examine any further, d'Artagnan turned back to Aramis and Porthos. The latter had dismounted and stood holding the reins to his horse with a stubborn look on his face.  
  
"I'm not traveling another mile like this," he was saying, frowning accusingly at Aramis. "You deal with them now. Go give them what they want and then maybe they'll go away."  
  
For the first time since he met the man, Porthos sounded desperate. Acting on instinct, d'Artagnan jumped to the ground and drew his rapier. His friends, moving as one, turned to him as if just then remembering his existence.  
  
"Put that away," hissed Aramis, dismounting as well before turning to Porthos. " _Fine_. As you please. But they come to me, not the other way around. There's an order to these things. It wouldn't do for them to get ideas."  
  
"Fine," echoed Porthos. "But if I get bird shit on my coat again, you'll be the one paying for the laundry. And make it quick, or Athos won't be fit for the ride home."  
  
They all turned to Athos who, having already finished his first emergency bottle, had now uncorked the second one. It was an unprecedented event and d'Artagnan felt the cold fingers of fear brush down his spine. He'd sheeted his weapon again at his friend's insistent looks, but now his fingers tightened around the hilt as he turned his head from side to side in an attempt to make out their enemy.  
  
"Don't let our glorious leader's behavior trouble you," Aramis said. "Athos just suffers from a most inexplicable phobia-"  
  
"There's nothing inexplicable about it," interrupted Porthos. "Those little bastards ambushed him when he was at his most vulnerable and pelted him with projectiles!"  
  
"You two make it sound so dramatic." Aramis rolled his eyes, then turned to the perplexed d'Artagnan with an eager expression on his face. "They threw some pine cones at him while he responded to the call of nature. It was hardly a tactical assault!"  
  
"He barely slept for a week! Nor did I, now that I think about it."  
  
"Well, he shouldn't have let them overhear him threatening me, now should he?" Aramis shrugged, running his fingers through his hair and shaping his mustache into perfect points before continuing: "They take my safety seriously and he knows that."  
  
"Who are we talking about?" demanded d'Artagnan, finally finding his voice.  
  
"The squirrels, of course!"  
  
No sooner had Porthos spoken than the forest erupted with life. Birds, squirrels, rabbits, field mice, boars, deer, even a family of foxes and a badger came out of the foliage. They had but one thing in common; each pair of worshiping eyes was turned towards Aramis. A tiny blue bird, singing its heart out, landed on the brim of the man's plumed hat. Aramis smiled, then whistled a short tune in answer.

The beasts all heaved a collective sigh of adoration.  
  
d'Artagnan blinked once. Twice. Then he sat down abruptly, bruising his ass against the hard ground.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Just a fun one - what would the Musketeers look like in other fandoms? Or is Aramis solving crimes through the power of deduction with his loyal friend, Porthos?" To which someone replied; "You know, I bet Porthos would be the detective! He's the one who figures out the spanish coinage, and the plot against Athos, and he's the one who figures out Bonnaire too. And Aramis is perfect as the best friend who does the doctoring, with an experience of women over multiple continents."

By the time he stepped outside, the fog was already thick and foul. It rolled over the cobblestones like smoke. Swallowing both sound and light, it left the street eerily quiet with only the dull glow of the lamp-posts to guide his steps. His fingers tightened around the cane as he stared into the night, hearing only the thump thump thump of his companion's tail against his good leg.  
  
d'Artagnan, once small enough to fit inside his owner's pocket, had grown over the summer and now reached a height where his constantly wagging tail posed a danger to tea sets and chemistry experiments alike. Had it not been for the dog's soft, brown eyes and pitiful whine, Aramis was certain that their landlord, Mrs Bonacieux, would have sent them all packing weeks ago.  
  
Suddenly came another sound, muted at first but growing louder as the seconds passed; someone running towards them. He turned to see a shadow approaching in the shape of a giant moth. Digging his free hand into his pocket, he found that he'd left the revolver behind. Aramis swallowed his annoyance, bent his knees and shifted his weight instead. He waited like only a soldier could; hands steady and mind clear.  
  
When the shape got close enough for him to make out details -- the set of the shoulders, the cut of the coat, the unique grace with which the man moved -- he relaxed, allowing a grin to light up his face.  
  
"You missed the knockout," Porthos greeted him, throwing an arm around Aramis' shoulder and leading the way down the street and through the fog with careless confidence while d'Artagnan jumped around their feet. "I was brilliant. The crowd cheered. I collected your winnings as well as my prize money and tomorrow we'll dine like kings. What do you think of Simpson's?"  
  
The hat threw a shadow over his face but, as they passed under the post-lamps, Aramis could still catch a glimpse of the split lip and make out the hints of mottled skin and the beginning of bruising. Porthos might have won in the end, but not without taking a few hits. His opponents tended to start out vicious, eager to take down the too clever, too strong and not nearly white enough champion of the ring.  
  
"Mmm," he agreed, only to regret speaking as his open mouth allowed the fog a chance to slither its way down his throat. "For now, let's pay a visit to Athos though. I need a drink."  
  
At the name, d'Artagnan's tail began wagging with renewed enthusiasm. For all that he, on paper, belonged to Aramis no one questioned that his heart was the property of a certain sourly Scotland Yard Inspector who claimed his lease did not allow him to keep pets.  
  
"Sounds good to me," Porthos rumbled, changing their course.  
  
Around them, surrounded by fog, London slept.


	10. Chapter 10

**Prompt:** "Athos and Porthos are the sweetest, snuggliest pair of cuddlers imaginable."

On his way back up the creaky stairs he listens for sounds from his chamber, but all seems quiet. Pulling off his boots he walks the last bit barefoot, toes curling against the cold floor. If his companions have fallen asleep, then Aramis has no intention of waking them. It's part kindness and consideration, but also pure self-preservation. Neither one of his lovers make for very pleasant company when they've been deprived of their beauty sleep.  
  
On opening the door and peeking inside, he stops mid-step, all complaints about the cold floor gone as he drinks in the sight of his lovers; the wonderful tangle of limbs and blankets. Porthos has wrapped himself around Athos, while Athos has dug his head into Porthos' shoulder. They're beautiful and Aramis' fingers itch to capture the moment with words. If he can't write poetry about this moment, then what is he meant to serenade?  
  
Instead, he makes his way past the piles of boots and abandoned clothing, undressing as he goes until he stands, buck naked, at the end of the bed. He kneels down beside them, listening to Porthos' sleepy snuffle and watching Athos chest rise and fall, suddenly unsure of his next step. There's enough space on either side of them for him, but on seeing their easy embrace he finds himself aching with the need for warm skin and steady heart-beats.  
  
He's still thinking when a hand shoots out and pulls him down into the middle of the bed.  
  
"Sleep," Porthos orders, pinning him down with a heavy arm as Athos, blinking at him like a dismayed owl, crawls up into Aramis' arms. Yawning, he then presses his back against Aramis' chest and Aramis, only too happy to oblige, tugs him close.  
  
If they were cats, Aramis suspects the two of them would be purring. As it is, Athos just presses his lips against Aramis' knuckles while Porthos sniffs his hair, humming a content little noise. Aramis smiles, a wide and goofy smile that no one but the two men sharing his bed will ever see.  
  
Tomorrow will be a good day. He can feel it in his bones.

 

 

 **Prompt:** "Anne's first time experiencing enjoyable, consensual sex." (Aramis/Anne, **brief mention of dub/non-con**.)

She doesn't love him.  
  
She doubts she will ever love any man. Her heart, once brimming with so much hope for the future, has now shrivelled in her chest. The good things of childhood have all fled, leaving behind only duty and the love a Christian woman ought to bear for God's creation.  
  
Like the good Queen she tries to be, Anne cares for the poor and the starving, the orphans and the widows, the lost and the damned. Each night she prays, pushing the embroidered pillow her chambermaids bring aside for the cold stone floor. She gives alms and she uses what little influence she has to soften the king's heart, but it's not enough. Maybe if her babies had been allowed to live... but no, she won't dwell on the impossible.  
  
"I fear I've lost your attention," Aramis murmurs, stroking the inside of her thigh with his clever fingers. She shivers and deep in her belly, where she ought to feel only shame, a spark rekindles. It builds into a fire as Aramis - beautiful and generous -- presses his mouth against the hollow of her belly.  
  
Muscles ripple under his skin as he moves and his hair feels soft as she reaches out to brush a few strands away from his face. His eyes, kind and attentive, smile up at her and that alone would surely be enough for any woman to fall in love with him. Instead, she just trembles with gratitude as his head dips lower.  
  
Unsure of what to do with her hands, she digs her nails into her palms. Aramis, somehow knowing or sensing, reaches out and wraps gentle hands around her wrist. She tenses, unwilling to be held down, but instead he brings her hands to his hair.  
  
"Hold on," he says from between her legs, his breath tickling her skin. She digs her fingers into his hair, worried about hurting him. It feels nice though, the illusion of control her hands on his head affords her.  
  
Part of her wants to ask, has been dying to ask for the past few hours, if this was how it was meant to be between a man and woman. She can scarcely believe it, keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing had hurt, not even when Aramis finally -- after reducing her to a wet and trembling mess-- had sunk inside of her. And even then he'd provided her with pleasure, rubbing her gently even as he thrust with slow and even motions. A far cry from the painful jerky way Louis would come to her in the dark.  
  
Pushing the thought aside, she focuses on his mouth and tongue.  
  
Eager, for this little something to call her own.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Inspired by the latest Musketeer film where they all live together. Please give me something for this. Maybe how it came to be? Or domestic troubles and bliss? Anything would be fine really."

The kitchen, large and spacious, reminds him of home. If he stands in the middle of the room, ignoring the dust that has been allowed to gather on the shelves and the grime which covers the windows, he can almost imagine his mother by the stove.  
  
There are a couple of bedrooms, easily large enough for two beds if they don't mean to share. He's of course grown used to having a room to himself since his arrival in Paris, but he won't deny that it would be comforting to be able to hear another person's breathing at night. For all that the city's brimming with people, there's more loneliness to be found here than d'Artagnan had ever imagined.  
  
The best part has to be the garden though. It's not much to look at in its present state, but it has _potential_. It wouldn't take much work at all for it to yield a small crop of this or that. Early spring vegetables perhaps. They would make a welcome addition to their table, being much too expensive for the likes of them to afford otherwise.  
  
"Don't bounce," Athos orders, frowning at the walls as if they have somehow offended him.  
  
D'Artagnan ignores him -- not that he was _bouncing_ , of course -- and hurries after the others to inspect the attic.  
  
xxx  
  
The house clearly does not suit their needs.  
  
In part because of practical concerns. To begin with, it's too small. Only two rooms on the second floor, then the unfurnished attic and a servant's alcove in the kitchen. A kitchen which, by the by, far surpasses the need of four soldiers used to taking their meals at the taverns or the garrison. Which brings Athos to another issue. It's much too far away from said garrison. Or, truly, anywhere else of note.  
  
Also, there's the undeniable fact that the house lacks in dignity. For one, it tilts. Less noticeably so on the outside, but as soon as one steps past the threshold it becomes glaringly obvious that a musket ball, if placed on the floor on one side of the room would soon find its way to the other side. On the second floor, it's worse still. Unwilling to find out if the third floor follows the pattern, Athos declines to visit the attic and opts instead to wait by the window as his friends troop up the winding stairs.  
  
In addition to this, there's the matter of the facade. The owner of the building, a man who Athos thinks less of by the minute, had clearly chosen the most frugal of approaches when plastering the outside of the house some decades ago. As a result the entire building now gives a distinctly mottled and pock-marked impression.  
  
As the roof above his head begins to creak in a most alarming fashion, Athos decides to retreat outside. For a few moments he considers leaning against the wall, but in the end decides against it lest he bring the entire house down with the others inside it. Instead he heads off in search for a tavern, sure that his friends will find him when they're done.  
  
xxx  
  
"So," d'Artagnan says, "I guess you two would share...?"  
  
Porthos doesn't jump, but it's close enough that he turns to his young friend with narrowed eyes. He'd been lost in his own mind again. Something about this whole project -- pooling their income together to rent a proper house rather than each one of them paying outrageous amounts for separate rooms -- has brought out that part of him, causing him to dwell on memories that by all rights ought to be left alone.  
  
"Share what?" he demands, his voice coming out harsher than he intends. "With who?"  
  
Aramis raises an eyebrow in an obvious question -- _need me to run interference?_ \-- but the boy doesn't appear to have taken offense. Porthos forces a smile -- _all good_ \-- and Aramis returns to studying the view from the attic window.  
  
"One of the bedrooms," d'Artagnan answers, as if it should have been obvious. "Will you share it with Aramis?"  
  
There's a noise from the window; a strangled kind of cough that Porthos knows all too well. It's not half as polite as Aramis seems to believe, but it carries the message through loud and clear. _When hell freezes over._ A clear rejection of the very notion of sharing this lopsided little house, never mind one of the bedrooms.  
  
"I guess not," Porthos answers, ignoring the tiny pang of loss. Some men just aren't meant to have a house to call their own -- a place to call home -- and clearly he's one of them.  
  
xxx  
  
"You mean to say that you like the place?"  
  
Aramis finds a small amount of comfort in the gobsmacked look on Athos' face.  
  
"Not at all," he answers. "I've seen gallows built with more thought to structural integrity."  
  
They both drink to that. Aramis has left Porthos and d'Artagnan to care for the horses, ostensibly to ferret out Athos but rather the walk has given him a chance to think. Strategizing he likes to call it, though Porthos tends to refer to it as scheming.  
  
Good old Porthos who'd looked at that rickety old house like a child at a forbidden treat.  
  
"Then why?" Athos demands. "It has absolutely no redeeming qualities."  
  
And d'Artagnan, prancing around the place like it was a palace, digging in the abandoned garden as if expecting to find a treasure buried in the ground.  
  
"Well," Aramis disagrees, his lips twisting into a smile by their own accord, "actually, it has two."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I want them to have a division of labor arrangement where each does some day-to-day things for all three of them."
> 
> This wasn't the whole prompt, but arguably the only part I managed to fill properly. It's a sequel to the house-hunting fill.

Spring brought both sun and rain.  
  
The sound of bird song filled the air. Green shoots peeked out from their beds of dirt. Fat flies, awoken by the heat, buzzed in the corners of the windows. With both the long winter and lent behind them, Paris slowly begun to stir to life again.  
  
In their little house, Athos managed to track mud all over the kitchen floor only to get scolded by the woman they'd hired to handle the housekeeping. To his friend's amusement, the tips of his ears flushed dark red before he, mumbling apologies, managed to back out of the room. Porthos and Aramis took to spending most of their free afternoons sitting, shoulder to shoulder, under the large tree in the garden.  
  
They claimed to sit there because they enjoyed watching d'Artagnan work, but truly they spent just as much time talking in hushed voices, passing a wine bottle back and forth between them or tossing their dice on the uneven ground. Eventually Athos took to joining them in the evenings, drinking as steadily as ever though still taking the time to join the others in offering d'Artagnan helpful gardening advice.  
  
"Have either one of you ever managed to grow as much as a radish?" the youngster eventually demanded, stopping to glare at them from where he was bent over a shovel. In response, they began laughing.  
   
"Well," Porthos said, lips twitching, "Aramis has managed to grow quite a nice moustache."  
  
Aramis preened, stroking his facial hair. Athos hid a grin behind his cup.  
  
D'Artagnan huffed angrily before throwing a shovelful of dirt at them.  
  
xxx  
  
One morning, they woke to find a woven wicker basket sitting on a chair in the kitchen. Curled up at the bottom of the basket laid a doublet, a long rip along one of the sleeves. The size suggested it belonged to Porthos, yet he claimed ignorance when quizzed about it.  
  
After that, it seemed like the contents of the basked multiplied over night. There were stockings with the heels worn out, shirts with the seams torn, even a coat with a few buttons missing. After some weeks the pile of clothing spilled out onto the floor. It all resembled nothing so much as a beast with its belly ripped open and guts spread out around it. Or, at least, so Aramis claimed.  
  
Everyone nodded at his words, but otherwise remained noticeably reticent on the subject.  
  
One evening, after they'd scraped the pot clean of the last of Madame Bonnet's lamb stew and all that remained on the table were bread crumbs, Aramis gave in and reached for the basket. It didn't happen with a sigh or a curse, as one might have expected, but rather with a chuckle. Of course, this might have been related to the fact that d'Artagnan had just been laid out on his back, his feet tangled in Porthos' hose.  
  
"You're all nothing but a bunch of ridiculous children," Aramis told them, tutting and mock-frowning. Then he went upstairs for his sewing kit. As it turned out though, he drew the line at mending their stockings.  
  
Of course, they found that out the hard way.  
  
xxx  
  
Another evening found them congregated once again in the kitchen. The hearth held nothing but cold ashes and the big stew pot stood empty. Madame Bonnet's daughter had given birth to her third child some days earlier and the old widow had gone to stay with her for a few weeks. Having forgotten all about it, they now stood around hungry and dirty, looking at one another in silence as if hoping that dinner would magically appear on the table.  
  
"We could go to the tavern?" d'Artagnan eventually suggested.  
  
Aramis, running a bloodied hand through his hair, shook his head minutely as Porthos glanced over at him with his eyebrow raised in an obvious question.  
  
"Not leaving him unattended," he said.  
  
At this, they all looked at Athos. The man stood slouched against the wall, bleary eyes focused on the floor. The flesh around his eye had swollen and the skin turned black. A few strands of hair clung together, stained dark-brown with dried blood. The gash hadn't been deep enough to need sutures, but it had still bled a lot. Noticing that he was under scrutiny, Athos lifted his head and squinted back at them.  
  
"What," he slurred, eyebrows drawing together as he worked out what they were discussing. "Oh. No. You go, Aramis. I'm not hungry."  
  
"Yeah," d'Artagnan admitted, needing no further prompting. "Bad idea. Withdrawn."  
  
Porthos, muttering under his breath, unbuckled his belt and hung it over one of the chairs.  
  
"You," he said, undoing the buttons of his jerkin as he looked over at d'Artagnan, "there has to be something in that garden of yours that we can eat. Aramis, take a look in the basement. I think Madame Bonnet has started putting eggs away for the winter*. Bring me a dozen."  
  
Before d'Artagnan could open his mouth to ask, Aramis had grabbed hold of him by the shoulders and led him out of the room.  
  
"You," Porthos added, pushing gently at Athos' chest until the man had backed down into a chair. "Sit. You can help me crack the eggs."  
  
That evening they ate poached eggs in red wine sauce, with a salad of greens tossed with oil and vinegar.  
  
xxx  
  
"You're not afraid of a bit of thunder, are you?" Porthos asked, grinning as he looked over at d'Artagnan.  
  
Rain hammered against their roof. The window panes rattled as the wind shook the  house, though that could barely be heard over the sound of the chimney roaring. They had gathered in the kitchen, Porthos sharpening his dagger by the hearth while Aramis read out loud from a book of raunchy poems. D'Artagnan stood by the window, watching the spectacular show put on by the lightening.  
  
"Terrified," the boy quipped. "You can't see it, but I'm shaking in my boots."  
  
"Don't shake in your boots," Athos ordered, glancing up from the loose sheets of paper spread out in front of him on the table. "You'll wear them out and we can't afford to buy new ones until autumn."  
  
Aramis stopped reading and Porthos put down his dagger. Even d'Artagnan managed to drag his eyes away from the window.  
  
"What's with the 'we'?" Porthos asked. "Since when does the whelp's footwear fall under communal costs?"  
  
"Since I realized that the way we were going, we'd have to choose between paying rent, feeding our horses or buying firewood for the winter."  
  
"Winter's months away," Aramis protested. "We could all be dead by then."  
  
As everyone turned to stare at him, he shrugged.  
  
"And that's why you're not in charge of the money," Athos pointed out drily.  
  
"I don't remember us putting you in charge of it either," Aramis countered, to which Athos replied with a shrug of his own.  
  
"Someone had to be," he said. "And I for one would prefer it if we didn't have to resort to cheating at cards, whoring ourselves out to rich widows or borrowing from our friends next time we need money for something."  
  
Porthos huffed, but glanced at Aramis with a thoughtful look. Aramis puffed out his cheeks, but snuck a considered look at Porthos. d'Artagnan, studying them all with overt interest, began to nod his head.  
  
"One for all, and all for one," he said, grinning widely only to then duck as Aramis threw the poetry book at his head.  
  
And thus Athos became the unofficial treasurer of the three (plus one) Inseparables.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Eggs were dipped in liquid fat, then allowed to dry until there was a coat covering the egg and protecting it. Also, those dishes aren't as far-fetches as they might sound. Salads with oil and -vinegar dressing have been a thing for a long time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just found this on my PC. Wrote it ages ago, after having seen just an episode or two of season two. If I remember correctly there was an insomnia prompt on the kink meme which I meant to fill. Not sure if I ever posted it, but well, figured I might as well add it to the collection here. Darker than most of my other fills, mind you.

His knees are swollen and sore, the skin stretched and smeared with yellow, green and blue. New bruises covering old ones; not a rare sight for a soldier, nor a sinner. At night, after he’s done praying and he’s stripped down to his shirt, he pokes at the bruises. The pain’s dull when it ought to be sharp, like being slammed by a training sword when you’re expecting the burning cut of a naked blade. He tosses and turns, but eventually he falls asleep. As usual, he dreams.

_He waits by the gate to his parents’ home as Isabelle walks towards him, her belly swollen with child and her face as serene and beautiful as the Madonna’s. Inside the house his mother hums a familiar lullaby and the air is heavy with the sweet scent of peaches. He means to go and pick some, but the light fades and he becomes aware of shadows, growing and creeping around them. His mother’s voice, thin and scared, urges him to close the door. He calls out for Isabelle and she begins to run. She leaves a trail of blood behind her, bright red soaking into the hungry ground. By the time she reaches him, her skirt is heavy with blood and her belly’s as empty as her eyes._

He starts awake, scrubbing at his wet face. He prays.

“Salve, Regína, mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve…”

 Against better judgment, he falls back asleep.

  _The baby cries. He can hear nothing but the piercing, pitiful wail. He looks around him, expecting to find himself near the nursery, hoping to catch a glimpse before Margaruite sends him away. Instead he finds himself staring at a raised gallows. Three bodies swing from it, their names known to him at once despite their distorted and swollen faces. An empty noose hangs next to them. The wind carries jeering whispers with it. Inseparables indeed, it mocks him._

_The baby cries. Heart aching, he turns from the gallows and begins to run towards the sound. He finally pushes his way through a faceless, angry crowd to find himself by a bonfire .There’s the stench of burning flesh and the heat of a fire. It’s the Spanish Queen, the people cry. It’s the Spanish Whore, the executioner proclaims. He chokes as he realizes that the taste in his mouth is that of his lover’s ashes. He turns and there’s the Cardinal, dead and risen again, just as grim and merciless in death as he had been in life. Behind him flows the river, littered with filth and garbage. Something draws his eyes though: something small and pale which floats upside down in the water._

_“Killed by love,” the Cardinal murmurs. In the silence that follows, it dawns on Aramis that the baby has stopped crying. Looking down at his hands, he finds them wet and dirty, carrying with the stench of the Seine._

He wakes, dry-eyed and dry-heaving.

xxx

“You look like shit,” Porthos greets him.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, forcing a pleasant smile. “But I’m still more handsome than you, my friend.”

Porthos grunts when he would once have laughed. Wordlessly he returns his attention to sharpening his dagger. There’s a distance between them these days. Porthos knows at once too much and too little. He goes from staring holes into Aramis’ skull, as if hoping the truth will spill out like wine from a broken barrel, to stubbornly ignoring that anything’s amiss. This too, Aramis knows, is his fault and his fault alone. There’s half a bread loaf laid out on the table, as well as a basket of green apples. He could sit down with Porthos, break his fast and try to mend what he has broken. Instead he thinks of the baby. The child will be awake by now, being fed by the wet-nurse. If he leaves right away, Aramis will be just in time to catch a glimpse as he’s carried to the Queen’s rooms.

“Either sit down or move,” Porthos snaps. “You’re blocking the sun.”

Tipping his hat, Aramis leaves.

xxx

He doesn’t get to see the baby that day though, or even hear him softly babble through a closed door. Instead he’s forced to return to the garrison, his mood as grey as the sky above Paris. He cleans his weapons while watching Athos and d’Artagnan fence. They’re a good match and their practice tends to draw spectators. Aramis wills himself to be distracted, but his mind wanders. Adele. Isabelle. Anne. The child that died, and the child that lived. The things which he has to live with every day, and the things which he cannot ever have. The guilt that tears at him, and the regret and shame that lives and aches just underneath his breastbone.

“Ave Maria,” he whispers, grabbing hold of his rosary. The feel of the beads in his hand reassures him much the same as the weight of his gun would when in battle.

xxx

That night he spills wine down the front of his shirt. He fends off the barmaid’s excuses along with her soft hands before helping himself to a sip from d’Artagnan’s cup. The boy steals the cup back, making a ridiculous face as he rubs at the rim where Aramis’ lips has been. Aramis winks at him, turning his head to burp discreetly. It does little to ease the discomfort in his belly. Gut rot, he absently diagnoses. Too much cheap wine combined with too little food and rest. But cheap or not, it helps bleed the tension out of his body. Perhaps tonight he will sleep.

The barmaid returns with another pitcher of wine. He fills his cup to the brim, forcing himself to pay attention to Porthos’ rumbling voice. He knows the story already – plays a not incidental role in it himself – and grins in all the right places. When he feels Athos’ eyes on him, a not rare occurrence the past year, he lifts his cup in a silent salute.

“That’s not true,” d’Artagnan laughs. “Aramis, tell me that’s not true.”

“You callin’ me a liar?” Porthos growls, mock-offended.

“Yes! Yes, I am. I really am.”

It’s nearly as good to hear the boy laugh as it is to see happy wrinkles appear around Porthos’ eyes. If it wasn’t for Athos’ evaluating gaze and the darkness swirling in the back of his mind, Aramis could perhaps fool himself into believing that nothing has changed.

xxx

He prays. Oh, how he prays. On his bare knees, on the hard and cold ground, his voice a hoarse whisper.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

Yet the nightmares come.

xxx

Athos finds him standing guard outside the nursery, hidden like a ghost in the shadows. 

“Aramis,” Athos says, his voice soft. “This is madness. You doom us all, including the child.”

He speaks nothing but the truth and yet Aramis finds that, in that moment, he hates him. Hates him like one can only ever hate an old friend. He wants to slam his fist into Athos’ stony face, wants to shut him up as much as he wants to rob him of his cool aloofness. Instead he turns and slams his fist into the wall. He feels it, but it’s not enough. It’s dull. It’s all dull, except for the noise in his head.

He draws back his arm to hit the wall again but Athos catches him, using the force of the motion to twist him around so that Aramis falls back-first against the wall. Athos crowds him so that they’re chest to chest, nose to nose. He breathes evenly and his hands rest steady and strong on Aramis’ shoulders, but his eyes are as fierce as Aramis has ever seen them.

“End this,” Athos breathes. “End it now. Because if you do not, my friend, then I must.”


End file.
